


Eaten By the Monster of Love

by rainbowstrlght



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 14:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14107038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowstrlght/pseuds/rainbowstrlght
Summary: Phillip was writing a novel--but what was the ending? Does a circus master and his troupe hold the key to the finale?





	Eaten By the Monster of Love

**Author's Note:**

> For Nadia--who is not only my brightest light, but still makes my heart pound after all these years. 
> 
> Also: The title comes from a song by the Sparks--["Eaten By the Monster of Love"](https://youtu.be/OpDmF2zu0_I).

Phillip was writing a novel, although the words were barely to paper. In his head he could see the story, as real as any of the lines from his plays—crisp black cursive letters, trying to form into sentences, longing to become a part of the printed world. In his mind the words were wavy shapes under the water, so close to coming up for air. Maybe if he dreamed enough they would finally emerge, gasping at the surface; the story like a mermaid that stares him dead in the eyes and beckons him to drown. 

Yes, his stories were like living beings—sometimes strictly imaginary creatures. Not many understood how that could be so. But that lack of understanding didn't mean he dreamt any less. If anything, it meant he dreamt more—sometimes waking with a cold sweat and a peculiar feeling that something was coming. If only he knew what it was. 

But in his dream he would be suspended in the air, the lights bright and swirling about him. So much color—so much red, gold, royal blue, and verdant velvet. He knew he was at the center of this universe, that the story was playing out around him. He knew most of the actors and seemed to love them—and maybe one of them was an elephant?—his mind could certainly put on a show. But the finale was still out of his grasp; it was submerged too deeply. It would come out of the shadows, eventually. Or maybe it was looming high above him—the bright lights hiding something that filled him with excitement and dread, and not from the heights. 

Maybe Phillip would fall. He had heard once that if you fall in your dreams you would most certainly be dead. And with the way his life was going—gambling hells, drinking halls, too many loose women? Maybe he would welcome it. 

Perhaps the last great thing in his life was this; a strange pleasure of falling into the sun.

***

One of his shows had just ended, and Phillip had been ushered out with polite applause. That’s the way Phillip saw it, anyway—he never knew if people really liked what he wrote, or if they in any way really liked his acting. It was acceptable, and sometimes that’s all that mattered. He wore blacks and browns because they were also acceptable; he smoked cigars where the wisp of gray was the brightest thing in his evenings.

In that way, P.T. Barnum was a welcome sight on that cold night; although also an ominous one. What did it mean for Phillip’s career that the circus master thought he could say hello to him? What did it mean for Phillip that he had actually followed the man in the night—had actually agreed to a drink? 

But Phineas—as he later introduced himself—also knew how to see worlds that didn’t exist. It had been extraordinary. It had also been terrifying, the way that Phillip had been seen through—the way that Phineas had watched him, as if knowing the future. 

Did Phineas know the finale? Phineas seemed to know everything. He took chances as if he trusted this great waltz with Fate—not realizing that at any moment the waltz could lead over a cliff. Sometimes Phillip wondered if Phineas even cared if it did—except that if Phillip knew anything, he knew that Phineas was passionate about this place he created; this tiny universe that Phillip was able to see too. This safe harbor for freaks and monsters like him. 

_Like him._ It was the only way for Phillip to explain the strange pounding in his chest. Who knew his heart was still alive in there, gasping for breath? That all it had needed was a strange man to take it between his palms and squeeze it back to life; to be the blood flowing through his body again. 

In his dreams he was so close that he could almost see it—a dark shape that seemed to be reaching towards him. Phillip wanted it more than anything. He had no idea that desire was a creature this menacing; this possessive over the entirety of his life.

***

Once Phillip started wearing the reds and golds, the words soon followed on reams and reams of cream paper. They were beautiful words— _luscious, urgent, crimson_ —and so unlike the plain language he had used on the stage; which had been so cold and distant. These new words poured out of him, as if a stopper had been lifted and the story was gushing forth. Thank God for it—Phillip had started to lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, bursting with too much to fall asleep. Now this other world was irresistible; he had trouble tearing himself away or rowing himself back to shore, back to reality.

Phineas didn’t seem to mind that Phillip would spend hours upon hours lost at sea. If anything, he knew there was something there, and he trusted that Phillip would find it. He would simply lay a strong hand on Phillip’s shoulder, with his fingertips trailing across Phillip’s back as he walked away. There was a rush when it happened—and it happened a lot. But _by God_ , certainly not enough. 

And _by God_ , Phineas was happily married. But he had a smile like a beacon and a voice that could carry Phillip home—and he would not give that up for anything in the world. He would reach into those bright lights and perhaps be burned, but he would follow that inevitable conclusion to wherever it ended, even to his ruin.

***

And soon everything would be ruined. Soon everything in his life would go up in flames, become a cinder—but not yet. There was still a small pocket of time where he had hope and fervor and anticipation. Where he saw a broad backside and felt the sickly jump in the pit of his stomach. Where he was a string pulled taut; plucked with a kind word, a kind gesture. Where he watched lips and fell into eyes and was hopelessly infatuated.

And they talked alone in Phineas’ office for hours on end. Phillip felt his face breaking open from all the grins and barking laughter. He was probably an embarrassing mess, but Phineas called for him so often—holding open the office door, offering a drink—and Phillip never resisted. Sometimes they would huddle close over plans for a new act, a new feature, and Phillip would have a wild thought of closing the distance between them. What would it be like to hold this man—to grasp someone so larger than life? If they kissed, Phillip would likely explode from the impact. He saw no other way. 

So maybe it was for the best that Phillip found connections to Buckingham Palace. The look on Phineas’ face when he told him—startled, then amazed, then excited—Phillip could hold that in his heart forever. _He_ had done that. _He_ had made that happen. 

And he had also made Phineas leave; taking all the best and brightest parts of Phillip with him.

***

Phillip had used so many words—even his best words—and none of them had convinced Phineas to stay. But then, if he wouldn’t even stay for his wife and daughters, what hope did Phillip ever have? All he had now were the letters that Phineas would write, so few and far between—so full of business and tasks, so full of distance and time passed.

Strangely, even though he still wore the reds and golds—someone had to remain the ringmaster, after all—the words stopped coming. He was again lying awake at night, but this time in restless frustration. Phillip thought of fingertips and caresses—he thought of how close they had stood, shoes touching, the smell of fancy milled soap. He thought of whisky shots burning his throat, his lips swollen and sore from nervous biting. Their legs under the table, not far from knees brushing—

In his dreams, the ropes tangled around his legs and gripped him, and this time he pulled himself up and up and up. The rope burn tore at his clothing and it was in tatters before he knew it—he felt exposed, he felt raw. He might be bleeding, he might be scarring. But all he saw were the bright lights above him after so many dark days, and he wanted to touch them more than anything else in the world. 

The earth felt so cold, so vacant. Anne was exquisite, and charming, and beautiful—but she was the moon on a clear velvet night. He was so fortunate to have seen her and met her—but also so unfortunate to have met her after such brightness, such danger coursing through his veins. 

Things would never be fair.

***

And then arrived the pleasure of his life—the moment when he knew the finale was upon them. When Anne was nowhere to be seen as the building turned into an inferno, he wondered if this is what he had truly dreamed about—not the novel that was meaningless now, kindling to the fire, but this moment where his life could finally be worth something. He raced into the building, the fear fueling him, but also turning his blood into ice as he looked everywhere and Anne was nowhere to be found.

Phillip fell onto the hot floor, exhausted and in pain, and thought about failure. It all seemed so familiar, but like a rehearsal gone wrong. The lights, the colors, the velvet—the rope was high above him, and he had fallen, but he was not yet dead. Here he was, turning into something meaningless, too. How poetic it would be to die with his words. Instead of pulling his story from the sea, he felt himself falling deeper and deeper into unconsciousness—his mind playing tricks as he thought he heard Phineas, saw Phineas. 

“No you won’t,” he heard Phineas say, “Not when I’ve just come back—”

Phillip squinted, and against the bright lights was a darkness, and in that darkness was the face of Phineas peering down at him— _worried_ about him? _Touching_ him?

When he fell it was the hardest and loudest thump in the world—the elephants had nothing on him. And when everything went black, at least Phillip knew that, finally, everything was over—the story was done.

***

Except it wasn’t. Phillip woke to the softness and comfort of Anne Wheeler, her hands touching the sides of his face. But he had the funny feeling that they echoed something else; and the more he probed the kiss, the more he reached towards something out of his grasp—a different hand caressing his cheek, a different mouth covering his. Different tears, a different kindness.

How could the story be over when there were still so many questions? What had he really seen in the bright lights? Did he truly remember anything at all, or was it just the words coaxing him like a siren—was it safer for him to turn his head and cover his ears? Or would he never forgive himself if he didn’t go out into that wide ocean, once again to be lost at sea? 

The night that Phineas handed him the reins to the show—the big top electric and shining around them, alive with all the sound and color that their universe possessed—Phillip knew what his answer must be:

A world awaited.

***

It was several days later when Phillip found Phineas in his office. A bare-bones operation, since so much had been lost in the fire—no grand desk for his business, no leather chair to stretch back in during candid conversations. Phillip could remember the feel of both and all the daydreams he had had there—his hands on the desktop and thinking of its potential; that chair and all the weight it could carry. Now there were simply wooden chairs and wooden tables covered with tablecloths and cushions. Papers were strewn everywhere, as there was nowhere to put them. A bottle of whisky was on the table’s corner, its glass catching the light and shining amber.

Did he really possess any bravery, or would he need the help of some liquid courage? 

“Phillip,” Phineas said warmly, then beckoned closer with a hand. “Pull up a chair—” Phineas looked around comically, “well, if you can find one.”

Phillip did find one, but it was on the other side of the broad table. 

“I hear things are going well,” Phineas started, he eyes going back to a document he was signing. “I think the crowds love you more than they ever loved me.” He glanced up with a grin, “Can hardly blame them, with a mug like yours.” 

Those brown eyes echoed the whisky, and Phillip grinned back. “Mine? No, I am just a poor substitute for the real thing.”

Phineas made a face. “Flattery will get you nowhere—” he stopped, thinking a moment. “Well, maybe just this once.” 

There was that smile again. It made Phillip’s stomach leap, but it was not entirely unpleasant. He was once again feeling like a string pulled taut, and he was helpless to stop it—not that Phillip wanted to try. The sensation was _divine._

When Phineas looked up again, their eyes locking, it took a moment before Phineas could break away. “Blue eyes,” he muttered. “Always getting me in trouble.” He set down his pen and leaned back, although the wooden chair had no give. “Well, what do you want? What can I get for you?”

It was such an easy opening, and the word fell from Phillip’s mouth before he could stop it: “You.”

Those brown eyes were questioning, hesitant, before Phineas chuckled. “What—you need me in the act? You don’t think you can handle it on your own?” He shook his head. “Don’t worry so much. Like I said, the crowds love you—”

“And I love you,” Phillip said. And when a moment passed, he had to gulp—maybe he was a fool. Maybe he was destroying everything. As the seconds turned into minutes, he felt as though he were swimming in the ocean; the water rising and rising until it was just past his mouth, almost past his nose, then beyond and over his head. 

Phineas was staring at him like an oddity. And if Phillip were honest, he knew that he was. Life could never be the same after this—he could never go back to who he thought he was. Maybe he could find a way to marry Anne, but she would also have to know about this—and heaven help him if she didn’t understand. 

Phillip cleared his throat and started to rise. “I’ll see myself out—”

“No—sit back down,” Phineas said quickly, then lowered his voice. “Please sit down.”

Phillip felt suspended, lifted into nothingness—time had stopped with those words. He sat back down, trying not to perch on the edge. 

“I…” Phineas said, then looked bewildered. 

Phillip had never seen this look before, this struggle for something to say. But the troupe had said it was a strange sight when their building burned down—when Phineas had stared at the bar countertop, wordless, hunched in defeat and despair. 

And Phineas was also a changed man. Maybe it was unfair for Phillip to lay this at his feet—to suggest something that Phineas might have moved past, if ever felt at all. Had all those touches meant nothing? What if Phillip had been reaching and reaching, and all he would grasp was empty and cold air?

Somehow, somewhere, Phineas made a quick motion and pulled out two shot glasses. Whisky would be used, after all. 

“All right,” Phineas said, leaning forward. “This is how it’ll go—”

And Phillip leaned towards him, seeing the sentences as Phineas said them out loud. Sharp and precise words in marching order, like ice water on Phillip’s face. Phineas talked about his marriage and the children; he talked about the business and their friendship. He talked about how it would never work, how it would hurt Anne and everyone in the troupe—

Phineas danced around the obvious. They kept leaning closer, and Phillip felt a grin growing—could no longer contain it. 

Phineas blinked in surprise. “What? What did I say?” 

Phillip reached out, his fingers grasping dark brown hair. “It’s what you didn’t say—” and they were even closer. “You didn’t say whether you loved me, too.” 

And Phineas didn’t have a chance. Phillip brought their mouths together with a bang, and he was right when he thought it would be an explosion. Stars fluttered behind his eyelids, his lips scorched by the heat of their tongues. It took him a moment to realize, but Phineas was gripping his neck, with nails digging into sensitive, tender flesh. The scratches burned, but Phillip pressed further—not letting go, realizing that Phineas wasn’t letting go, realizing that desire was a bridge between them, not a chasm. Stars turned into supernovas and everything was much more urgent, much more desperate, before they both snapped back, gasping for air, with spots dancing before Phillip’s vision. 

He held his breath—he would not regret this. Not when it was the most wonderful thing he had ever felt. And considering that Phineas still held onto him, fingers slipping to his shoulder, maybe the world would not end after all. Maybe his finale would not be the tragedy he expected, or the most painful imaginable. 

Phineas was wild-eyed, but when he met Phillip’s gaze, he seemed to find himself again. He grinned, almost giddy, then looked around for the two shot glasses before pouring them each a drink. 

Phineas held up his glass for a toast, the liquid as bright as his amber eyes. “All right,” he said again, “ _This_ is how it’ll go—”

But this time the words were gorgeous, the sentences shining. They were words that Phillip would follow anywhere—alight with hope, alight with color, alight with promise. Did the lamps get brighter, or did Phillip just see more clearly? 

He realized the story had never ended—would never end. When they clinked glasses, he knew that their story was only beginning, 

Phillip was writing his novel, and he knew it would be the greatest love story ever told.


End file.
